Blair shook his head. "I've got to, somehow." But when he came back and stood in front of his mother, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder lounging against the mantelpiece, he was apparently his careless self again. "Well," he said, gaily, "if I haven't anything of my own, it's your fault; you've been too generous to me!" The knitting-needles flagged; Nannie drew a long breath. "Yes, you are too good to me," he said; "and you work so hard! Why do you work like a--a man?" There was an uncontrollable quiver of disgust in his voice. His mother smiled, with a quick bridling of her head--he was complimenting her! The soreness from his thrust about legality vanished. "Yes; I do work hard. I reckon there's no man in the iron business who can get more pork for his shilling than I can!" Blair cast an agonized look at Nannie; then set himself to his task again--in rather a roundabout way: "Why don't you spend some of your money on yourself, Mother, instead of on me?" "There's nothing I want." "But there are so many things you could have!" "I have everything I need," said Mrs. Maitland; "a roof, a bed, a chair, and food to eat. As for all this truck that people spend their money on, what use is it? that's what I want to know! What's it worth?" Blair put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small beautifully carved jade box; he took off the lid delicately, and shook a scarab into the palm of his hand. "I'll tell you what _that_ is worth," he said, holding the dull-blue oval between his thumb and finger; then he mentioned a sum that made Nannie exclaim. His mother put down her knitting, and taking the bit of eternity in her fingers, looked at it silently. "Do you wonder I got that box, which is a treasure in itself, to hold such a treasure?" Blair exulted. Mrs. Maitland, handing the scarab back, began to knit furiously. "That's what it's worth," he said; he was holding the scarab in his palm with a sort of tenderness; his eyes caressed it. "But it isn't what I paid. The collector was hard up, and I made him knock off twenty-five per cent, of the price." "Hah!" said Mrs. Maitland; "well; I suppose 'all's fair in love and collections'?" "What's unfair in that?" Blair said, sharply; "I buy in the cheapest market. You do _that_ yourself, my dear mother." When Blair said "my dear mother," he was farthest from filial affection. "Besides," he said, with strained self-control, "besides, I'm like you, I'm not 'damn-fool honest'!" "Oh, I didn't say you weren't honest. Only, if I was going to take advantage of anybody, I'd do it for something more important than a blue china beetle." "The trouble with you, Mother, is that you don't see anything but those hideous Works of yours!" her son burst out. "If I did, you couldn't pay for your china beetles. Beetles? You couldn't pay for the breeches you're sitting in!" "Oh, Mamma! oh, Blair!" sighed poor Nannie.